


cigarettes and dandelions

by christopheapostrophe



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 19:57:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7328368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christopheapostrophe/pseuds/christopheapostrophe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“God doesn’t care about you, about me,” you want to shout. “God doesn’t even care about your mangy mutt.”<br/>Half the time, you don’t even utter these words.<br/>What would be the point?<br/>Still, you can’t keep every word to yourself.<br/>Especially when it comes to Gregory. You always break your rules for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of five vignettes concerning Christophe's hatred for Gregory of Yardale.

1.  
“They’re going to get their asses beat,” you say, staring over Gregory’s shoulder.

You don’t know the name of the movie, you walked in during the middle, and you’re still trying to string the pieces of it together.  
Some military movie, it looks like. A world war. Lots of crying and screaming and clutching each other while the cannons rage. You feel like you’ve seen it before, on TV or something. 

“They should just curse God and die.” 

You’re quoting something, you think. You can’t remember what it’s from but the words aren’t yours.  
Gregory goes stiff, his shoulders tensing. He pauses the movie: two men are gripping each others’ hands, as though they’ll never let go.  
Between you and Gregory lies No Man’s Land, the area of couch between you and him, the space between the both of you. It reminds you of that look his eyes take on, when he’s being disgustingly visionary, the area you can’t bridge. What's it like to believe in the good inherent in god and man?  
You pull yourself into the area of open couch beside him, force yourself across that blank space, until you feel his shoulder dig into yours as he starts the movie again.  
On screen, one of the men presses a golden locket into the other man’s hand, makes him promise to take it back to his mother if he dies. The locket is covered in mud (probably from being at the bottom of a trench) but the gold still shines through. 

“He’s going to die, isn’t he,” you say. 

Gregory doesn’t say anything, but leans back into you a bit, even though there’s plenty of room for both of you on the couch. 

2.  
You feel like you’re always on edge, ready to snap someone’s head off if they look at you the wrong way. 

At school, at home, at church. “God doesn’t care about you, about me,” you want to shout. “God doesn’t even care about your mangy mutt.” 

Half the time, you don’t even utter these words.  
What would be the point? You don’t want to be one of those prophets with the sandwich board advertisements on them. Except, in your case, you’re a prophet spreading the word of a god who crushes his children like ants. An anti-prophet, perhaps.  
No, you keep your words to yourself. That’s one of your rules.

A knife should only be drawn in a fight, and like a knife, you try to keep your words under your tongue, sheathed.  
You write them instead, scribbling in your notebook with the golden fountain pen your mother got you for Christmas. She doesn’t really understand what you like, but you don’t mind using the fountain pen to write.  
Sometimes you draw, but inevitably, you fill the pages with words that you try not to speak. 

Still, you can’t keep every word to yourself. Especially when it comes to Gregory.

Somehow, he’s enough to get you to draw your knife, go in for the kill.

You always break your rules for him. 

 

3.  
The door to the guest room is unassuming. White painted wood with a plain doorknob, across the hall from the master suite (your mother’s room) and the downstairs bathroom.  
You catch Gregory in the act of attempting to turn the door knob.

“Don’t go in there,” you tell him, even though he wouldn’t be able to open it. 

“That’s the guest room. Bathroom’s through here.” 

His eyebrow raises, as though he’s getting ready to test you. He always pushes. You always push back, lockstep. After all, you can’t let him best you. 

“Do you have the key? It’s your house, after all.” 

You know where the key is. It’s dangling from one of the hooks in the kitchen, glinting golden in the light from the double windows. You’ve never touched it: you’ve never wanted to.  
You exhale, a noise that means nothing.  
“I could also have the keys to the city, or to the gate of God’s heaven. I wouldn’t want any of those things.” 

“Why must you be so complacent?” he asks, still fiddling with the knob. “I’ve never seen inside.” 

“You’d like to think it’s all about you, you English _putain._ Don’t you.” 

“Get your head out of your ass. This is your house, and this is your room.” 

“No, _idiote,_ it’s the guest room. My _maman_ keeps old dusty clothes, old dusty pictures in there. Why would I ever want to go in there?” 

Gregory still seems fixated on the room. It’s a challenge to him. To you, it’s just a landscape feature. 

“Pictures of you?” 

You laugh, forced. 

“I guess.” 

He pushes at the door, as though extra force will pry it open. “You French really don’t question things, do you?”  
That’s a bit of a barb, but you’re used to his verbal fencing. 

“I question why you want to poke through old dusty clothes, all right,” you say. 

“And pictures,” he says. 

You don’t ask why he’d be interested in pictures of you.

 

4.  
You don’t do after school activities. 

Instead, you go to the pond behind the high school, where your favorite smoking spot is. 

There’s a flat, oblong stone that juts out over the edge of the water, and despite encroaching erosion, it persists.  
You dangle your legs over the water, tapping ashes from your cigarette into the pond, watching as it floats, then sinks, like falling snow. Sometimes, Gregory follows you there. Sometimes he doesn’t. 

Today, he announces his arrival by sending a stone skipping across the pond. The splash breaks your reverie, and you spot him, in his obnoxious orange coat, on the other side. He wears no hat: his hair ruffles as the breeze picks up. You stand up, taking another drag from your cigarette, and watch as he screws up his face in concentration, positioning the stone just so in his hand, before sending it across the pond.  
One, two, three skips, before it sinks to the bottom. 

You’ve heard a kid drowned here, once, but you think it’s just a story. 

“Fag,” you call out. “You want me to show you how to throw a stone, _n’est-ce pas?”_

“I can skip rocks just fine,” he protests, marching toward you as though he intends to show off right here, right now. What a surprise. He’s always performing, even when he’s on your stage. 

“Here, let me show you,” you say, and pick up a smooth stone from the pond’s edge. “Hold your hand flat, and then throw.” 

You demonstrate a practice throw, then let your arm go. The stone practically sings as it dances over the surface of the water. One, two, and then it sinks.  
You scowl, as his face lights up. Golden. 

 

5.  
It’s spring. You know because your mother is yelling at you to get up, _dépêche-toi,_ the yard is full of dandelions and why aren’t you up already!

You fumble your way out of bed, into a shirt and jeans, and shuffle your feet into your work boots. You don’t actually mind mowing the lawn, it’s just annoying when she asks you to do it. Naturally, you take your sweet time going downstairs, ignore your mother when she tells you good morning, and head out into the bright sunlight, squinting into the bright sun.  
You’ll give the yard a good look, maybe tune up the lawnmower. You’re not going to get any work done for the next hour or so, especially if your mother keeps her nose out of your business.  
That’s what you expect to happen, anyway. 

You’re not expecting to see Gregory sitting in the middle of your lawn, his hand wrapped around the stem of a dandelion, getting ready to blow away its white tufts. The dandelions around him nod their golden heads in the breeze. Gregory needs a haircut: his own golden hair is beginning to curl at the tips, which has a weird effect on your chest. You shake it off, and speak. 

“You’re up early,” you mutter, and head toward the shed. “Aren’t you worried about getting grass stains on your jeans? Thought fags like you cared more about your appearances.” 

“No, that’s just you,” Gregory says, following you over toward the shed. “It’s not early, either, only a Frenchman would think 11 am on a Saturday is early.” 

You fold your arms, look at him dubiously. “It’s Saturday. Any time before 1 pm is abhorrent.” 

He laughs. “Spoken like a true frog.” 

This time, you ignore him. The garage door is already open, so all you have to do is wheel out the push mower, check the oil, and get to work. 

You’re willing to start work early if it means Gregory will have to get his ass off your lawn.  
He’s already acting as though he’d like to take a seat upon it again. 

“You’d better move,” you announce as you wheel the lawn mower to the edge of the driveway. He looks up, as you revv the engine. He doesn’t quite jump, but he does look alarmed. Victory. 

“Surely you’re not going to run me over,” he says, but he does get up off the lawn. 

However, instead of leaving, he grabs a handful of dandelions, white-headed and yellow-headed alike, and goes to perch on the fence. Not quite victory, but close. The wind stirs his yellow curls again, and you can’t help but tighten your fists. Two can play at this game. 

You reach your hands to the hem of your shirt, and pull it up over your head, dropping it on the sidewalk, before pushing the lawnmower out into the yard. You can feel Gregory’s eyes boring their way into your back, and you take a certain delight in lopping off the golden heads of the spring dandelions, row after row, aristocrats at the guillotine. Take that, and that. 

You spot dandelion fluff, floating through the air, and turn your head to look at Gregory. He’s blowing at another bunch of desiccated dandelions. 

“Don’t do that, stupid Brit,” you say, annoyed. 

“That just means more work for me later, they don’t need your help to spread. Or is that all you Brits can do? Spread imperialism everywhere?” 

“Look, I’d hardly call dandelions imperialism,” Gregory says, and plucks dandelion fluff from yet another flower’s head. He wafts it toward you with a flip of his wrist: it’s possibly the faggiest thing you’ve ever seen him do.  
“Oh no, it looks like you’re going to have to mow the lawn again.”

You could kill the little bastard. You sort of want to. But then you notice your mother is looking out of the kitchen window, so you decide to finish the yard first. 

There’s not much yard to cover, thank god, so you finish in record time, even with Gregory breathing down your throat. You wheel the lawn mower into the garage, and as you turn it off, you notice an untouched dandelion clinging to the front of the machine. You pluck off the golden flower, and grind it under your boot.


	2. summer comes to south park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from the moment you wake up, your teeth sit on edge, too riveted together to permit the toast your mother has made. Instead, you sip milk, glowering silently at the breakfast table.  
> Your mother suggests you smile, for once, and you scowl even harder. Like a basset hound, your face just wasn’t made that way. When she gets up to make eggs, you bolt for the door.  
> \-----------------------------------  
> A collection of summer vignettes.

1\. Who lives when it’s all over

from the moment you wake up, your teeth sit on edge, too riveted together to permit the toast your mother has made. Instead, you sip milk, glowering silently at the breakfast table. 

Your mother suggests you smile, for once, and you scowl even harder. Like a basset hound, your face just wasn’t made that way. When she gets up to make eggs, you bolt for the door. 

At school, you scowl more, this time across the aisle. He pretends not to see you, but you know he’s watching, sneaking glances at you under the fringe of his stupid fag haircut. You crack your bruised knuckles; you can’t wait until after school. 

“Fag,” you yell out. He’s waiting outside the school, behind the gymnasium, as if he’s got the same plan in mind. 

Out here, you’re out of earshot, out of view from anyone who might tear you apart. 

“Articulate as always, Christophe,” he says, running his hands through his stupid fluffy hair, as though he’s checking to make sure it’s securely attached to his skull. You want to tear it out for him. Then he really would have to check for sure. 

_“Suce ma bite,”_ you say. 

He looks up. “Ironic, considering you just called me a fag, isn’t it? Now you want me to go down on you?” 

His bright eyes regard you as though you’re just a feature of the landscape, as though you aren’t worth his time. Stupid posh bastard.

“Take that look off your face,” you say. “You fucking snob, I’ll knock it off of your face for you!” 

Your fists connect with his jaw, his fists connect with your chest. 

Even if you beat each other into twin pulps, you’ll wake up the next morning and do it all over again. 

2\. Father’s suit

Your mother has a brace of suits hung up in the guest room, a few in her room as well. Most people would keep pictures of their ex-lovers. All her pictures of your father are hidden away, but the suits remain.

You’ve thought of digging a hole in the back yard, burying the suits, where they belong. It would upset her too much, though, so you never do it. Instead, you sneak into the guest bedroom, and reach into the breast pocket, where you find a decorative white handkerchief.  
You take it out to the yard, where you hold it aloft, like someone waving goodbye on the deck of a steam ship. Digging into your pocket, you find your lighter. 

It takes only a moment to catch, the fire gnawing greedily at the fibers, and then the whole thing goes up in a puff of smoke, crumbling into grey ash. 

3\. Storm preparations

Your mother is crossing herself over and over, but that’s not unusual.  
She’s mumbling Bible verses, but that’s not unusual either. What is unusual is that she sits down at the table with a thump, grabs your hand, and motions at you to sit down next to her. 

“Christophe, I need you to be honest with me,” she says, voice tear-choked. 

“I didn’t knock over the flower pot in the kitchen, Mother, that was probably your fucking cat.” 

The cat, unaware that she's just been maligned, winds around your feet, purring as though she expects you to rub behind her ears. 

She takes a deep breath, strokes your hand. “This isn’t about the flower pot. Son- are you, perhaps, homosexual?” 

You’re expecting something like, are you on drugs, are you knocking up some girl. Not “are you a homo.” 

“Mother!” You jerk your hand out of hers, and you’re up and out of the chair, ignoring her protests. Your stomach heaves. You might be sick.

You dash out of the kitchen, out the front door, down the street. 

Spring thunder rolls in the clouds above, and the air is thick and muggy with heat and the incoming storm. 

You run until your side hurts, and then you stop, near the park. The rain has begun to fall, so you duck beneath one of the park shelters, where people go for church gatherings, family picnics.  
You sit at one of the park benches, and watch the rain plummet down. 

4\. June routine

School is out. Good. You hate school. You hate seeing Gregory every day. 

You wake up at 5 am most mornings, and put on your jeans and your work uniform polo.  
You have two, and you hate them both, chalkboard green and just as ugly.  
You brush your teeth, attempt to comb gel through your unruly hair before giving up completely, and tiptoe down the stairs to avoid waking your mother.  
The last thing you need to do is to have her bustling around, trying to make you eat breakfast, making you late for work. 

At 5:30, you open for the KwikTrip, trying to keep your eyes open as you stand behind the counter, the humming of the fluorescent lights a constant.  
Two hours later, Gregory stops by. You could swear he does it on purpose, coming in when you’re on duty. He always goes to the glassed-in refrigerated section, and selects an orange soda.  
Orange soda is disgusting, just like Gregory, so they’re perfect for each other.

He takes his time combing through each section. The drinks section, the hotdog section, the snack session, the little clothing section. You see him in one of the shoplifting security mirrors, trying on a trucker hat, and grimace, almost a reflex.  
He poses, model-esque, one hand on his hip, the other jutting out as though he’s about to walk the runway, and makes eye contact with you through the mirror. 

God, you hate him. 

Finally, sans trucker hat, he brings his (single, solitary) soda up to the front of the store, the soda that he has taken fifteen minutes to purchase, and places a handful of change on the counter for you to sort through. You glower at him, but it’s legal tender, so you have to sort out the pennies and nickels and dimes into one dollar and fifty cents. 

“Thirty cents is your change,” you say, with your best customer service smile on, and pass him his receipt, change, and soda. 

“I’ll see you around,” he says, grinning at you like a canary that just ate the cat. 

“I won’t,” you say, even though you’re already planning to go smoke at Stark’s Pond after your shift. Maybe you’ll get to deck him in the face, you think, and you ride on that thought until the end of your shift. June days are predictable, but at least there’s no school. 

5\. Places you don’t want to see again

Gregory’s house, with its stupidly neat lawn, painted white shutters.

Gregory’s room, tidy except for all the places you know it’s not. 

You’re probably the only one who knows he shoves things under his bed, in his drawers, and everywhere else he can hide clutter.

Gregory’s bed, with his soft cloud-printed sheets, and his stupid hair caught on the pillow. 

After all, you hate Gregory, and he hates you. 

_Right?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm christopheapostrophe over on tumblr! feel free to chat about sp or whatever really!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm christopheapostrophe over on tumblr! Feel free to message me about South Park/ South Park pairings over there!


End file.
